You missed a spot, Mrs. Danforth's manicured finger pointed to an imaginary smudge. Really, Clara? If you can't handle basic tasks, I'll fix it right away, ma'am. Clara repolished the area, plus six inches around it for good measure.
Her reflection warped in the silver surface. Dark skin stretched and distorted against the gleaming metal. The morning crawled by. Every piece Clara finished was inspected, criticized, and usually handed back for another round of polishing. Her arms ached, and the chemical smell of polish made her head swim, but she kept working.
The gala was tomorrow night, and everything had to be perfect. Remember, Mrs. Danforth said as she finally approved the last piece. Tomorrow night is about showing our community how much the Danforth family cares. I won't have anything spoiling that image.
By the time Clara got home that evening, her fingers were raw from polishing and her nose still burned from chemicals. She found Darnell at the kitchen table, textbooks spread out around him, empty pizza box pushed to one side. "You ordered pizza? " Clara asked, hanging up her coat. That money was supposed to last until payday. I was hungry.
Darnell shrugged, not looking up from his homework. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he'd been studying late again. Clara sighed, sitting down across from him. "You need to sleep, Darnell. Those AP classes won't get easier if you're exhausted. " "I'm fine," he mumbled, finally meeting her eyes.
"Why'd you quit your old job? The one before the Danforths. We weren't struggling as much. Then the question hit Clara like a physical blow. Images flashed through her mind.
Another mansion, another wealthy family, another humiliation. She stood up quickly, gathering dishes from the table. That's ancient history. Focus on your homework and try to get some sleep tonight. But no butts, Clara said firmly, turning to the sink.
So he wouldn't see her face. The past is the past. We look forward, remember? The water running over the dishes couldn't quite drown out the sound of her heart pounding. Some memories were better left buried, especially with tomorrow's gala looming ahead like a storm on the horizon.
The morning of the gala arrived with a frenzy of activity. Clara's muscles still ached from yesterday's silver polishing, but there was no time to rest. She darted between rooms, checking off tasks from her mental list, fresh flowers in the foyer, place cards arranged perfectly on dining tables, champagne flutes, spotless and gleaming. Watch where you're going. Margot Danforth's sharp voice rang out as Clara nearly bumped into her while carrying a stack of fresh linens.
The youngest Danforth daughter stood in the hallway, phone in one hand, designer coffee cup in the other. Sorry, Miss Danforth, Clara mumbled, sidestepping quickly. The linens threatened to topple, but she steadied them against her chest. "God, why is everyone running around like headless chickens? " Carter Danforth emerged from his room, still in his silk pajamas despite it being nearly noon. He leaned against the door frame, watching Clara struggle with the linens.
It's just another boring charity thing. Margot rolled her eyes. Daddy says this one's important. Something about tax writeoffs and good PR. She turned to Clara, who was trying to inch past them.
You better not mess anything up tonight. We don't need the help embarrassing us. Yeah. Carter smirked, reaching out to flick one of the tablecloths. Try not to trip and spill anything on the guests, though that might actually make things interesting.
Clara bit her tongue and kept moving. The linens needed to be pressed and on the tables within the hour. She couldn't afford to waste time trading barbs with the Danforth siblings. In the laundry room, Clara worked quickly, pressing each tablecloth to crisp perfection. The iron hissed and steamed, adding to the already humid air.
Sweat trickled down her back, but she couldn't stop. There were still dozens of tasks waiting. Need help with those? Maria, one of the newer maids, poked her head in. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed an iron and started on the pile of napkins.
"Thanks," Clara said, grateful for the assistance. They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes. The rhythmic sound of irons gliding across fabric filling the small space. I heard Carter and Margot giving you trouble earlier. Maria said finally those two.
There's something else. Clara shook her head. I've dealt with worse. I believe it. Maria paused, testing the heat of her iron.
You know, I worked with your mama years ago before. She trailed off, suddenly very interested in a wrinkle that needed pressing. Clara's hands stilled on the tablecloth. You knew my mother. Yeah, over at the Wittman place.
She was a good worker, your mama. Real dignified, just like you. Maria's voice grew quieter. Things Well, things ended badly there. What do you mean?
Clara turned to face her, the iron forgotten. Her mother had never talked about her time with the Witmans. Had never explained why she'd suddenly quit that job. What happened? Maria's face closed off, her earlier openness disappearing like a door slamming shut.
Oh, it's not my place to say. Ancient history now. She grabbed another napkin, avoiding Clara's eyes. We should hurry with these linens. Guests arrive in 6 hours.
Maria, please. Clara stepped closer. If you know something, Clara. Mrs. Danforth's voice echoed down the hallway.
Where are those tablecloths? The decorators are waiting. Maria quickly gathered the pressed napkins. We better get moving. You know how she gets when things fall behind schedule.
Clara watched her hurry out. Questions burning in her throat. What had happened to her mother at the Witman's? Why had Maria clammed up so suddenly? But Mrs.